


Priorities

by trufflemores



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: 2.06, Aftermath, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, enter zoom, tw mentions of assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 19:15:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5345540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores/pseuds/trufflemores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2.06. Joe rushes to see Barry after Zoom attacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Priorities

It's always worse when it's your kid.

Joe puts the pedal to the floor and blasts the sirens, flying across Central City. Half of the force is on the radio, talking about what's happened, what  _could_ happen next, and what emergency precautions need to be taken now. It starts to sound like its own language, endless codes, and Joe knows he should listen in, too, for further instructions, but to hell with it.

He has to find Barry.

The only place he knows where to look: STAR Labs.

It takes eight minutes from the moment he surges out of the station doors to the front entrance of STAR Labs. He sprints full-tilt down the halls, gun drawn, ready to fire on the first human that isn't Cisco, Caitlin, Harrison, or Barry.

He smashes through the main lab doors and steps into a storm.

His ears ring with the pandemonium, Caitlin shouting, Cisco responding, Harrison typing rapidly into a computer. There's blood on the floor, on Caitlin's hands, across Cisco's shirt, and Joe feels sick, gun still cocked, adrenaline surging through his veins.

"Detective West," Harrison greets, face  _white_ , unspeakable emotions playing out across his face – despair, terror, horror, surprise – as he sets the phone down.

There's a moment when everyone seems to stand still. Cisco looks at him and says something, but Joe only has eyes for Barry.

He wants to throw up – he's seen hell, but Barry is family, Barry is practically his  _son,_ and seeing him broken is so much worse than he expects. There are half a dozen devices hooked onto him – an oxygen monitor clipped to his index finger, electrodes on the upper half of his chest, a nasal cannula helping each struggling breath along, a cortical collar keeping him from moving his head, an IV stemming from the crook of his arm – and Joe can feel the  _pain_ radiating off himjust looking at him. He's been around a hospital long enough to recognize the alarms, to understand that the heart rate monitor off the charts, half the signals reading critical, the other half unstable.

The lightning bolt didn't leave a mark on him, but this – this  _did,_ and Joe wants to fall to his knees at the sight of it.

Instead he pushes forward, one agonizing step after another, until he's standing over Barry, tears flowing freely down his face, jaw clenched so tightly it hurts. He chokes on a word, staring at Barry's barely open eyes, and then Caitlin says, "I'm sorry, Barry."

She sticks a needle in his chest and pulls air from it, and Joe's seen it before but it doesn't make him feel any less sick, any less like he's going to pass out.  _Pneumothorax_.

Barry's making choked sounds, more blood slipping past his lips and then Joe's reaching for his hand and letting Barry crush it, letting him channel any ounce of pain into him under the desperate illusion that maybe Joe can take some of it away from him.

They've only opened the suit at the chest and Joe's almost grateful that he doesn't know exactly how broken he is, can't tell what other horrors have been inflicted on him, how much pain he's really in.

He knows how much pain he's in.

It's indescribable.

Caitlin pulls the needle out at last and at least Barry's heaving, strangling breaths seem more substantial, subsiding to shallowness almost immediately. Joe keeps a grip on his hand even as it goes lax, the limp fingers cold, scarcely twitching. He's got a nasal cannula supplementing every strangled breath, but he still looks like he's choking and there's an equally cold sweat across Barry's forehead and he doesn't even know where Cisco and Harrison are but he doesn't care.

"Easy, Bar," he tells him, grateful that he's still able to stand, holding on tight. "Easy."

Barry's fingers twitch as Caitlin sets him up on an IV, tensing and releasing intermittently as she tightens a bandage around his midriff, red seeping through underneath it. There's a spectacular black bruise over his sternum and Joe wants to ask but he can't, his voice gone, tears streaming down his face as he prays,  _Please, please don't die_.

The hand in his goes completely limp, Barry's features resolving into stillness, and for a moment Joe can't breathe.

Then Caitlin says, "It's okay." He squeezes Barry's hand tightly, scarcely listening as she adds, "He's very strong. It's going to be okay."

"Save him," he says, and it comes out thin, scarcely audible above the machines.

"We will," Caitlin replies, and there's a conviction in her voice that keeps Joe from falling to the floor and weeping, knowing that he's losing his child and there's nothing he can do about it.

They're going to save him.

They're going to keep him alive.

Barry's strong. He's going to be okay.

He pulls in deep breaths even though it hurts and lets go of Barry's hand, lets go even though it makes him feel dizzy and scared, because he can't do nothing, he can't be still, and so he acts.

There's a sink and he finds a pile of white cloths in the cabinets above it, grabbing one and soaking it in warm water. Caitlin's still moving, scarcely pausing for breath as she undoes the soaked bandage around his waist and – fucking hell, that's a stab wound – reapplies it.

Moving in slow motion, Joe staggers back to his side, trying to process each new injury, to compartmentalize it, separate it into anything other than  _this can't be happening to Barry,_ but he can't.

Barry's still bleeding, a slow trickle from the corner of his mouth, and most of the blood is caked onto his chin and neck now and god, there's a ring of purple bruises around his collarbone and Joe wants to kill whoever did this to him but he can't, he has to be  _here,_ so he takes the cloth and gently rubs at the smear of blood on his cheek.

There's a vivid memory of a sniffling twelve-year-old Barry standing in front of him, tears in his eyes as Joe uses a wet cloth to rub a smudge of blood off his cheek, a startling reminder of how cruel kids can be.

He buys Iris and Barry mint chocolate chip ice cream and makes a point of walking them home from school from then on.

He wishes, staring at Barry's heaving chest, that ice cream was all they needed to make him feel better.

Even as the blood comes off, dark bruises form, and Joe knows in a sickening moment of certainty that his jaw is fractured. He presses so lightly he's barely there, persistent but careful, at last giving Barry's hand another squeeze before returning to the sink for another cloth.

He's got a fantastic bruise down his right cheekbone, blooming across his jaw, and his eyes are shut and Joe feels the emotions swelling up inside him again as he leans over and kisses his forehead.

"Please," he tells him, like he can somehow undo what's been done to him, trying to keep his emotions down enough to be useful, dammit.

Cisco is back, carrying three bags of blood, and Caitlin takes over, hooking Barry up to another line – he doesn't even twitch – and telling Cisco, "Go get the MRI ready."

"On it."

Caitlin looks at Joe and says, "We have to get him out of the suit."

Joe nods, following her instructions – he's good at taking control but he knows when to step down, when he's out of his element, when he doesn't stand a prayer of fixing it on his own – and letting her coach him through it.

It's skin-tight, and Joe is keenly aware of every little hitch in Barry's breathing as they move him. He's seen him shaken like a ragdoll, dangling limply from that  _thing's_ grip, but somehow the incremental movements now are harder. The adrenaline is gone. Now it's real.

And reality is reproachful, grabbing Joe by the back of the neck and shaking hard.  _Hold it together. Stay calm. Barry needs you._

Cisco is back and helps him lift Barry enough for Caitlin to slide the torso half of the suit out from under him.

Barry groans, and Joe catches a glimpse of his spine, sickeningly out of alignment, before they're lowering him back to the bed and Barry's making tiny, choking noises as he tries to sit up, to get pressure off his back.

One hand reaches for the collar around his neck and Joe catches it, and it hurts to watch him cry, to not be able to take away his pain or even explain it, but he squeezes and tells him, over and over, "I'm here, Bar. I'm here. It's gonna be okay."

The struggle is brief – for six seconds, Barry squeezes his hand hard enough to hurt, and then he surrenders, coughing up a spatter of blood before letting his hand go utterly limp.

Cisco's almost done pulling off the pants, and Barry isn't little by any stretch, but he seems utterly breakable, like someone could reach over and crush his heart.

They could, but they won't: not while Joe's still alive.

Once the suit is gone, they're off.

Harrison takes one step towards the door and Joe's gun is up, his blood rushing to his head. "Don't move."

"Joe—" Harrison begins, hands up, concessionary.

"If he dies," Joe says, very seriously, "you die."

Harrison doesn't say a word, keeping his hands up until he's seated at a computer and Joe lowers and holsters his gun.

"I understand," Harrison says. His voice is hoarse, broken. "But I had to try."

"You didn't  _have_ to send Barry out there to get killed," Joe snaps, feeling angry, sick, guilty.  _This isn't how justice works. Don't become a murderer._

_If this man murdered my son . . . ._

"Zoom was too much for my world," Harrison says, head in hands, agony written across his face. For a moment, Joe almost pities him. "I had thought that there was a chance we could beat him on yours. With someone  _stronger._  Someone  _faster._  Someone a hell of a lot braver."

"Barry wants to save everyone," Joe says, "but he's not invincible. You put him in  _that thing's_ path and let this happen."

"Joe," Harrison starts.

Joe doesn't say a word, staring at the blood-stained cloths in the corner and feeling a lump forming in his throat, rage and agonizing sorrow competing for his attention.

"I'm sorry," Harrison whispers.

Joe says nothing, sinking into a chair and drawing in a deep breath.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, virtually catatonic, unaware of the outside world at all beyond  _Barry._

His phone rings. He clears his throat and answers.

"Hey, baby."

"How is he?"

Joe rubs his forehead. "Bad."

"I'm on my way."

"Iris—"

She hangs up.

He tries to imagine what will happen if Barry dies – if the blood fills his lungs and nothing Caitlin does can stop it, if his heart finally gives out, if some unseen problem shuts his system down – and all he can see is Iris' face.

It would kill her to lose Barry.

It would kill  _him._

So he prays and prays and prays, implores anyone to keep him alive, and when Caitlin and Cisco return with Barry between them, there's a grave look on Caitlin's face, but she keeps her head up and her shoulders back and Joe takes that for the small victory it is.

It's bad.

It's actually worse than they expected.

But he might make it.

Still, it's gut-wrenching to see the images for himself, to take in what  _happened_ , and he's only peripherally aware of Cisco's explanation. He catches 'complete dislocation' and surmises that much from the screen in front of him; he's never even heard of the 'thoracolumbar junction,' tuning it out as he looks up at Barry and realizes that this is what Zoom did to him.

Caitlin's already busy in the background.

And Barry's awake.

Joe drags himself out of his seat, crosses the sea between them, and takes his hand.

"It's gonna be okay, Bar," he says.

Caitlin injects something into his IV line and Joe wants to ask what it is, but thirty seconds pass and Barry's eyelids slide shut and Caitlin sets to work.

They set him up in a brace, wrapping it around his waist to keep his body aligned, directing the healing in the right direction.

Once she's satisfied with the angle and tightness of the wrapping, Caitlin returns her attention to the stab wound, cutting the bandages off, and it's finally stopped bleeding but it's still gruesome. Everything about Barry shouts  _pain._  His entire chest is one massive bruise, varying in shades and colors but ultimately the same image of agony. Ribs are cracked. Zoom missed killing him by two inches, the dark black bruise on his chest a testament to it. Bruises riddle his legs all the way down.

He shouldn't be alive, but he is, and Joe will be damned if anything or anyone changes that.

With as much care as they can, they transfer him to a clean bed. Caitlin wraps his legs in a heated blanket, changes out his IV bag, adds another transfusion. They wheel him into a room where it's dark and quiet and Caitlin can hook him up to a stationary set of monitors, relaying twice as much feedback almost instantly.

It's promising, but his oxygen levels are still low, his ribs are still cracked, his jaw is still fractured, and his heart rate is still elevated above his normal.

His back is still broken, but, Joe thinks, he might actually be  _okay._

"He's just going to need time," Caitlin says quietly.

Joe clears his throat, feeling tears on his face again, but he can't be ashamed, he can't feel anything other than gratitude that he's still alive and a gut-wrenching sense of helplessness that he's so  _hurt._

He hears a sharp breath behind him and Iris is there, Linda standing just behind her shoulder, dazed, everything starting to catch up to Joe at once.

"What happened?" Iris demands.

"Zoom," Cisco replies eloquently.

Iris swallows hard, entering the room and asking, "Is he going to be okay?" She looks like she wants to hug him but doesn't dare, unsure whether it's even safe to touch him, her expression aghast.

"I think so," Caitlin says. Then, stepping towards the door, she adds gently, "Are you okay, Linda?"

Linda nods, but she's pale, and shaking, and Caitlin wraps an arm around her shoulders and steers her into a separate, quieter room; Joe thinks,  _Shock_.

"Is he really going to be okay?" Iris asks, tears in her eyes, drawing him back to the present.

He doesn't look okay. Even the monitors report deficiencies in half a dozen areas, a system overwhelmed to the point of collapse.

"He has to be," is all Joe says.

. o .

It's been three hours and Barry hasn't woken up and Caitlin is starting to worry.

Joe can see that she's trying to hide it – she checks his vitals compulsively, appears satisfied, and then rechecks them, over and over, until he thinks,  _You've memorized his heartbeat_ – but he knows how to read people.

The bruises have faded, so he looks better, but he's still pale and cold and unconscious and Joe can't help but think of the euphemism:  _He looks like he could be sleeping._

After six hours, his heart rate is almost half what it was when he was last awake.

And Joe's patience is wearing.

He's glad that Iris took Linda home, promising to return soon, because he doesn't know if he could hold it keep his sanity if he was trying to reassure her that Barry was going to be fine when the lies were right in front of him.

It's almost morning and Joe's head hurts, his stomach feels twisted, and he just wants to take Barry  _home,_ to know he's going to wake up and smile and be back to himself, but he can't, because Barry looks like death, and maybe he is dying, quietly, under their care.

Caitlin goes to check Barry's vitals again, the worry plain on her face now, but Joe can't take it anymore, so he stands and walks into the main lab, staring at Harrison.

He's hunched over and chafing his hands together, looking like a recalcitrant children awaiting a reprimand, and Joe's patience  _snaps_. "This is your fault."

"You think I don't know that?" Harrison spits, looking almost as terrible as Joe feels. "You think I don't  _know_ what this means?"

"It means you're going to regret coming here." Drawing in a deep breath, trying to keep his cool, Joe adds, "It means you're going to go away for a very long time."

" _I_ didn't murder Barry," Harrison snaps, standing tall and glaring, and the fact that he can still walk while Barry might not even wake up is too much.

"If Barry dies, you die," he's snarling, pressing Harrison against a wall, and Harrison, to credit, looks alarmed, but he's still got that bitter sneer, like he's  _above_ Joe and his anger, and that enrages him.

"Joe," Caitlin says, her voice sharp, as Cisco drags him back, "Barry's vitals have stabilized. Let's let him go."

"No, Caitlin," Joe says.

She sounds tired, almost as sore as he is, when she pleads, "Why? What good does that do for Barry?"

"It's gonna help me."

And it will. He can't get retribution on Zoom – Zoom is unbeatable – but he  _can_ get it on Harrison, the man who brought Zoom into their world, who sacrificed Barry to him, who couldn't give a  _damn_ if Barry  _dies._

 _You're being irrational,_ a quiet side reminds him.

Harrison twitches and Joe shoves him, almost snapping at Cisco ("Joe,  _stop_ ") because  _dammit,_ this isn't his fight, but then Cisco demands, "Who's Jesse?"

And a new, more paralyzing emotion crosses Harrison's face:  _hope._  "How do . . . Jesse's my daughter." His voice cracks, barely audible, and for the first time Joe sees a man under the machine, someone capable of emoting, of actually caring what consequences his actions have. "Zoom has her."

And Joe realizes that the pain on Harrison's face had nothing to do with Barry, and he doesn't know if that makes him feel better or worse, except, maybe, that it makes him human, selfishly human,  _not my daughter, please—_

_Anyone but my son._

It's a terrible impulse – wishing pain upon a stranger – but it's the only option when your child is dying.

It's animal, it's irrational, and Joe sees all at once why Harrison was willing to sacrifice Barry for Jesse.

Because he had something profoundly irreplaceable at stake.

Nothing could supersede that.

But it does nothing for his anger, even as Harrison staggers with relief because Jesse is  _alive_.

Joe should be sympathetic but he can't be ( _Barry's vitals have stabilized_ gets crushed under  _if he dies, you die_ ), so he gets angry instead. "Zoom sent you here like the others?" he says, trying to rationalize it all. "You kill the Flash, you get your daughter back?"

"The only way I get my daughter back," Harrison says, voice crackling, "is if I capture Zoom." Stepping closer, unafraid, he says, "Do you understand? You love Barry. I love my daughter."

His voice breaks and Joe almost can't look at him, feels a tightness in his chest that he doesn't want to because nothing, nothing can make what happened to Barry right.

No justification could be strong enough.

Except: "And none of these children are safe as long as Zoom is here."

And there it is – the fear Joe can't give voice to, the fear none of them dared to say.

_If we can't stop Zoom, we're all going to die._

Harrison keeps talking and Joe is peripherally aware of him, but all he can think of is  _Barry,_ and how he needs him to be okay, to be safe and sound and whole.

He lets Harrison go, and he's aware of Caitlin trying to console him, but he tells them both, "I need some air."

It's the hardest thing he's ever done, leaving Barry's side, but he's going to suffocate if he stays in the room any longer, so he steps outside and  _breathes,_ staring at the world, light and soft and pre-dawn, and wonders how it can still be the same when so much has changed.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, wondering if Zoom will kill him, if he's going to come back and kill them all, if their efforts to save Barry won't matter at all –

He cuts off that train of thought and, swallowing heavily, he fishes out his phone for the first time in hours and calls the office.

Captain Singh is scared, even though he's trying to hide it, and they're all trying to hide it, but Joe listens calmly, patiently, drained. He can't find any emotions left in him; he can't find anything but  _I need you to wake up, kid._

When he hangs up, he feels like he hasn't heard a word.

He steps back inside and shivers, feeling the steel instead of the warmth, the isolation and separation from the world inside the lab.

The fact that it could be Barry's tomb.

He walks slowly, distantly aware of his own footsteps, until he reaches the main lab.

And Cisco's there, smiling, crying, telling him, "Barry woke up, he—he's gonna be okay."

It's been nine hours since he watched them bring Barry back, and Barry's awake, Barry's  _alive,_ and Joe has to sit down or he's going to pass out.

"He's sleeping now, but Joe – he's gonna be okay," Cisco says, and he's kicking himself silently for not being there, but Caitlin and Cisco were and maybe that's good enough.

Not for him, but for Barry, and Barry's all that matters.

The room feels warmer, lighter, and a hundred pounds have lifted from his chest as he steps up to Barry's bed.

Caitlin's sitting in a chair, looking in equal parts relieved and worried, and Cisco sits next to her and wraps an arm around her shoulders, giving her a consoling shake.

"He's gonna be okay," he says, and Joe wants to believe it.

He doesn't know when he dozes off, arms folded across his chest, but when he wakes, it's to a soft noise, inquisitive, startled.

Blinking rapidly, he sits up – Cisco and Caitlin are gone; coffee, maybe, it's gotta be mid-day – and asks, "Bar?"

Barry lifts an eyebrow slightly, blinking slowly in reply, and Joe has never been happier to see those green eyes than he is then. "Hi."

"Hi, buddy," Joe replies, trying not to get choked up, but it's already happening as he takes Barry's free hand and squeezes it lightly. "You scared the hell out of us."

"Yeah," Barry breathes, his voice faint but  _there,_ husky with sleep and pain but still his. "Everyone's okay?"

"Everyone's fine," Joe assures, squeezing his hand. "You're gonna be fine."

Barry doesn't reply right away, free hand tensing on his thigh, squeezing the muscle. "I can't feel my legs," he admits at last, hoarse, broken. "I can't feel my legs, Joe."

Joe doesn't know where he finds the certainty, the profound certainty that it's going to happen, but he still says with utter conviction, "We'll fix it." Then, noticing Barry's eyelids already drooping, he adds, "For now, you should rest. It's been a long day, buddy."

"Mmm." Barry's eyes close and Joe thinks he's gone, but his hand still manages a faint squeeze and he breathes, "I'm sorry."

Joe's heart cracks.

"Bar," he says, "you did so good. It's okay."

"I shouldn't have –"

"It's okay," Joe interjects gently. He can feel Barry caving, but he wishes he could erase the impulse entirely, the  _guilt_. "All of us are safe and so are you. It's gonna be okay."

And as Barry sighs softly, squeezing his hand back before going limp again, asleep, Joe finally dares to believe it.


End file.
